


Never Meet Your Heroes (They're Probably Assholes)

by PyromanicSchizophrenic



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Attempted Murder, Gen, Kidnapping, This is weird, i love it though, it's a pretty wild ride, kind of, technically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-11 21:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11722998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyromanicSchizophrenic/pseuds/PyromanicSchizophrenic
Summary: Bianca Rivera has a small bucket list, composed almost entirely of people she'd like to meet. She just...didn't want to meet any of them like this.Brendon Urie just wants to go to New York to rehearse for Kinky Boots. He doesn't want to have to deal with any of this James Bond bullshit for this summer.He's pretty sure James Bond never had to deal with someone quite like Bianca, anyway.





	1. Can't Even Tell If This Is a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place about a week after the Death of a Bachelor Tour ended, so Brendon's _supposed_ to be on his way from LA to NYC in this, he just made a brief pit stop to help a friend, essentially.

_Woodley Park Marriott Hotel, Washington, DC_

Brendon Urie blinks open his eyes slowly, on the floor of an empty hotel room with a splitting headache. His phone is under the bed, screen cracked, and there are broken pieces of chair by the foot of the bed.

It’s been thirteen years, give or take, and Brendon never really grew out of the _oh my God this is so cool!_ phase of things, the part where he bounced around saying _“This is just like James Bond, guys, how_ cool _is this?”_

James Bond, Brendon thinks as he prays that his phone is at least still functional, never had to deal with this shit.

* * *

_Hampton Inn, Swansboro, NC_

_Two days earlier_

“This is ridiculous,” Zack mutters, shooting a text to someone. Brendon doesn’t really care who.

 _You’re the one who agreed!_ Dallon argues, voice crackling from poor cell phone reception. _Both of you are!_

“Look, we’ll just check in on her, alright?” Brendon snaps. He doesn’t know how to say that he agrees with Zack, this _is_ ridiculous, without sounding like he doesn’t believe Alexander.

Zack would never hurt Brendon, no matter what Brendon says or does, and Brendon knows this. But Zack’s scary defensive of Alexander, and Brendon doesn’t want to piss him off.

Alexander trained Zack, years and years ago, and retired shortly after. Brendon’s spoken with him plenty of times, he thinks Alexander’s a great dude. Short, stocky, hilarious, and a beard like Santa Clause, there’s never been any reason Brendon could think of to doubt Alexander’s skill. So when Alexander texted Zack, a picture of a girl who looked to be in her early twenties with the caption _help her_ , Brendon agreed to help too.

The problem, though, is that Alexander didn’t give them much of anything to go on. He gave them her phone number so they could hack into her phone, so Brendon’s got a burner that lights up and shows exactly what hers does, but other than that there’s nothing. They don’t even know her name, or the physical details that a picture doesn’t give, like her height or weight or anything useful like that. They can’t even really see her eyes, because the sun’s glaring onto her glasses like a second-rate anime character.

Brendon’s never had reason to doubt Alexander’s skill, or his ability to inherently _know_ when someone was in danger, and even less to doubt his loyalties, but all this sort of screams _TRAP_.

They know that Alexander cares for her deeply, in the paternal way that he seems to care about everyone who lives in this fuck-all town (and Brendon’s lesser-known second job has brought him to a lot of Bumfuck towns, but this one really seems to excel in Bumfuck-ness), and he knows that someone’s after her, but he won’t say who or, more importantly, _why_.

 _Has it occurred to either of you_ , Dallon starts, and Brendon knows exactly what Dallon’s about to say.

“Don’t, Dal,” Brendon advises, because Zack probably wouldn’t ever hurt Dallon (and Dallon’s on the other side of the country, where he _belongs_ , anyway), but Dallon’s about to insult Alexander in the absolute worst way, Brendon can tell.

Dallon’s already suggested it, privately, when Brendon told them about this plan in the first place.

 _It’s just something you should consider,_ Dallon says anyway, although Brendon’s grateful that he didn’t outright say, _Alexander might just be going senile._

“I have,” Brendon admits. “But if he’s right and we ignore him…”

“That’s her blood on our hands,” Zack finishes for him. That’s the thing that Brendon hates the most. Sometimes, they’re the only ones that _can_ help, but at the same time, they _can’t_ , and then there are lives that end for no reason except that Brendon and his team were too busy being _rockstars_.

Brendon doesn’t think any of them will forgive themselves for Oklahoma.

 _Good luck, then, I guess,_ Dallon says, before hanging up. Brendon understands that Dallon just wants to spend time with his family without having to worry about this shit, but he thinks he could be a little more supportive.

The burn phone lights up and unlocks, and Brendon needs a moment to adjust himself to the fact that it’s a picture of him on the background, on his piano platform, a still from the tour that just ended.

The messaging app opens up, the contact name _Mama_ sending a text that she was “parked in the regular spot,” and then sending a text to the contact _Wonderwall_ asking, “what are the odds of things?” and then the screen goes black again.

“This would be so much easier if she put names in her phone,” Brendon muses, leaning back, “instead of weird nicknames.”

Zack scoffs. “Like you were better when you were her age.”

Brendon doesn’t feel like pointing out that they don’t actually know what her age _is_ , and so Zack doesn’t have a point and is just being _rude_.

* * *

It takes a bit of work, but eventually they manage to piece together where the girl works.

“This is creepy,” Brendon says, stealing one of Zack’s fries. They’d gone to the Wendy’s not too far from the hotel, then promptly returned to the hotel. “We’re literally stalking someone. A _fan_. Zack, fans stalk me. I do not stalk fans.”

“How do you know she’s a fan?” Zack asks.

“I’m her phone background!” Brendon reminds him. “People don’t set celebrities they aren’t fans of as their phone backgrounds!”

“Stop stealing my fries,” Zack says, even as he steals some of Brendon’s Frosty. “Have you found anything?”

Brendon sighs. “I think so. Maybe.”

* * *

It’s another two hours, the sun starting to set, before Brendon gets frustrated. The intel-gathering part of all this had never been his strong suit, so he’s honestly surprised he’s lasted this long.

He tries to ask Kenny for help first—Kenny’s fucking _great_ at this part, seriously—but Dean got into something bad for fourteen-month-old babies and Kenny had hung up before Brendon could actually ask him for anything.

Parents are not ideal for this job, Brendon knows this. He thinks maybe he should just retire, himself.

Another hour later, and Brendon just breaks down and calls Alexander himself.

Alexander takes a lot of wheedling before he gives Brendon an address, somewhere out in a town called Stella, in the county over. Brendon has no idea where that is, and neither does Zack, really, and they can’t just use a GPS because if someone _is_ after this girl, then they might lead someone directly to her.

They leave the hotel at about ten at night, because late night is the best time to do this sort of thing, Brendon’s pretty sure.

(Extraction of civilians is actually not a thing he usually does; he just kicks ass occasionally.)

It takes a couple hours to find her house, which isn’t a house at all—it’s a mobile home, and in the moonlight, it looks like it’s painted an off-white.

Brendon’s not even sure they’ve got the right house, not until Zack points out two different nondescript rental cars parked strategically so that they’ve got a view of the house, and another car that keeps driving by.

If they weren’t sure whether or not Alexander was right before, they’re sure now. There’s no way that these people are here for Brendon and Zack—they can’t have known.

“Fuck,” Brendon mutters. “Any idea which one’s her window?” he asks. He doesn’t know why Zack would know.

“The one that has a green heart hanging in the window’s a good guess,” Zack suggests. Brendon looks up and thinks it might be a G/G/B heart. It is a good guess.

* * *

Bianca Rivera does not hate her life, no matter what she says. It’s not a bad life—not great, but not bad. A little tedious, sometimes, but even then, it’s not too much so. Just last week she saw Panic! at the Disco live in Greensboro. That was fucking _awesome_ —Brendon Urie’s fucking awesome. She’s got plans to go to New York and see Kinky Boots on Broadway in July. Again, Brendon Urie’s fucking _awesome_.

She’s reevaluating whether or not she hates her life, however, when she wakes up with a stranger straddling her, hand pressed to her mouth in case she starts screaming, and dressed in dark clothes.

She screams anyway, even though she knows that it’s completely useless, and flails her arms out. Her hand catches the cord to her lamp, and she stretches her arm a bit farther to grab the lamp itself, because the lamp is a Himalayan Rock Salt lamp, and there’s no better weapon to fight off someone possibly trying to kill/rape her than a heavy ass _rock_.

Whoever’s on top of her moves backwards out of the way and catches Bianca’s wrist in that last second before he has a rock collide with his temple. Bianca blames the lamp, and not the fact that her arm strength is that of a limp noodle, for the whole attack thing not being faster.

The stranger’s other hand—the one not covering Bianca’s mouth, takes the lamp and puts it back on the table, then catches both of her wrists and pins them above her head. Bianca screams again, licks the hand (which has the opposite effect that she was going for, and now the hand’s gripping her jaw so hard she thinks she might get bruises), then bites it.

“Ow, what the fuck?” her attacker says, softly, but with lots of feeling. He still doesn’t move his hand.

Bianca would admire his resilience if it weren’t for the fact that _there is a stranger in her room who probably wants to kill her or at the very least hurt her very badly, holy shit_.

“Would you _stop_?” hisses the stranger, and Bianca stops long enough to stare up at him disbelievingly. “Thank you,” he mutters, just before Bianca brings up a knee to catch him square in the back. It’s less her knee that hits him, more her whole thigh, but it has the effect she was looking for—his hands both lose their grip, so she’s free to shove him off her bed and onto the floor.

Briefly, she thinks about her laptop, on the ground by her bed, but the laptop’s a small price to pay for her _life_. She’s pretty sure.

She gets up, hops off the bed at the foot, right by the door, but the stranger’s quick, already catching her with an arm around her waist and his other hand covers her mouth again. But she’s standing this time, so she has more than enough freedom to reel her foot backwards and heel the fucker in the crotch.

Bianca’s arm strength may be that of a limp noodle, but she has calves of _steel_.

Now, though, she really does have to admire this guy’s resilience, because other than a pained whimper and a couple staggering steps, it really doesn’t seem to have any effect on him.

“If I move my hand,” the stranger whispers, breath tickling Bianca’s ear, “do you promise not to scream?”

Bianca didn’t think that people actually said that outside of B-list movies. She nods, even though that’s the first thing she’ll do.

He seems to anticipate that, though, because she hasn’t even taken in the breath to shout before something’s being stuffed into her mouth—she hopes it’s not one of her socks, because she’s honestly not sure if the clothes in the hamper are clean or not.

Then there’s duct tape covering her mouth, keeping her from removing the cloth. She’s spun around to face her attacker, and her breath stops (arguably, she wasn’t breathing well to begin with).

It’s dark in her room, illuminated only by her salt lamp, but now that she’s actually looking at her attacker’s face, there’s no mistaking him.

She can’t believe her luck. She can’t believe she ever thought Brendon Urie was _awesome_.

* * *

“Dude, what the fuck happened to you?” Zack demands, as soon as Brendon gets back to the car, the girl in tow. She’s stopped fighting, thank _fuck_ , but Brendon’s not entirely sure how long that’s gonna last. She definitely didn’t seem to believe him when he told her that there were people who wanted to kill her, and that he was going to keep her safe. He’d hoped that bringing up Alexander would help, but she doesn’t seem to know who he was talking about.

“Jon was always better at this than me,” Brendon huffs, putting the girl (he still doesn’t know her name) in the back seat. He turns on the child lock, because he doesn’t think letting her open the door on her own is a good idea. He goes around to the other side and does the same before getting in the passenger side. “Let’s get out of here before they start shooting.”

The girl makes panicked sounds in the back, and Brendon sighs. He already knows exactly how this next part is going to go—he and Zack had talked about it at length on the way out here. And he’s not looking forward to it.

She seems to realize that there’s nothing around her hands anymore, because next thing Brendon knows she’s screaming.

He catches _what the fuck_ and _my family’s in there_ and _shooting at what_ somewhere in all of it but it’s mostly just inaudible screeching. She gets the window rolled down a quarter of the way before Zack locks them, and rolls it back up.

Brendon’s already got a headache, and he thinks that it’s only in part thanks to the way he banged his head on her end table when she shoved him off the bed.

They ignore her the whole way back to the hotel, which is considerably easier to find than her home had been, and when they’re in their parking space, Zack spins around.

“Shut up, _please_.” Brendon can’t believe Zack’s asking so nicely.

The girl stares at both of them, wide-eyed and clearly terrified, and Brendon almost feels bad. (He’d feel worse, of course, if it weren’t for the fact that her life is in actual danger.) “What’s going on?” she asks, voice hoarse from all the screaming.

“We’ll explain when we get inside,” Brendon assures her, because he’d tried to explain it before they left her house, but she wasn’t exactly paying attention, what with the _trying to assault him with a fucking rock, what the fuck_.

“And you’re not going to try to run,” Zack adds, in that voice that says _do as I say or you’ll eat your own kidney_ , “or scream for help. We are not trying to hurt you.”

She glares back at Zack, and Brendon does have to admire her ferocity. He’s seen a lot of people quake under Zack’s unspoken kidney threat, but she doesn’t back down. He wonders if maybe she’ll kick Zack in the balls, because that’s definitely her most effective defense, especially now that she doesn’t have her giant rock (seriously, what the _fuck_?).

She doesn’t seem to actually have any physical fight left in her though, she just looks tired. Brendon doesn’t trust it.

“Look, if we really wanted to kill you, I’d have done it in your room,” Brendon points out. “I’d have been much less likely to get caught. We’re not going to kill you in our hotel room, it’s high risk and tacky.” He knows it probably won’t help, but at this point, he’ll try anything. “Just let us explain, okay?”

She nods mutely, not looking like she trusts them any more than she did before (who could blame her?) but also looking too tired to fight or run.

He gets out, opens her door for her but stands in the open space, giving her just enough space to stand up. The glare she levels up at him tells him that he was right to block her off—she’d have run. He throws an arm around her shoulders, grip tight enough that she’s pressed to him, but it looks friendly to anybody who might happen to see them.

The nighttime desk attendant is a friendly-looking man with no hair on top of his head, but a dark-haired beard; it’s not a look that really works. He glances up, grins at the girl and says, “Hey Bianca, how’ve you been?” and Brendon tightens his grip warningly.

“’M good,” the girl— _Bianca_ —mumbles, shifting uncomfortably. “Work’s exhausting,” she adds.

“Tell me about it,” the man says, holding up a stack of papers. “These should have been done two weeks ago.”

“I have an essay due in two days,” Bianca says. “I haven’t even started.”

The man makes what might be meant to be a disappointed face. “You used to be on top of stuff like that,” he chides, but even Brendon, who doesn’t know him at all, can tell he’s not being serious.

Bianca huffs a laugh, but it’s empty. “No I wasn’t,” she admits. “I just always pretended that I was.”

The man laughs. “Alright, well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says, and Brendon starts to steer Bianca away. “Have a good night. Nice seeing you again.”

“Yeah, it was great,” Bianca calls back.

Zack’s waiting by the elevator. They make their way up to the room in silence, broken only by Bianca scuffing the ground with her foot.

* * *

Bianca can’t believe her _life_.

“Who the fuck is Alexander?” she demands, because while it’s true that she knows a few Alexes, none of them are close enough—emotionally or geographically—to be behind this.

 _This_ , being an alleged cryptic text with nothing but a photo of Bianca and a request to keep her safe. _This_ , being people trying to kill her, people who are not the lead singer of Bianca’s favorite band or his bodyguard. _This_ , being getting _kidnapped_ by said lead singer of her favorite band and his bodyguard.

“Alexander,” Brendon Urie snaps, “short, stocky, has a cane. Is apparently a father figure to this entire town. Ring any bells?”

It does ring bells, but not for someone… “Holy shit, _David_?”

David Alexander Moore was Bianca’s babysitter and neighbor when she was a kid. She’s not exactly sure why he’s got his cane, she was definitely curious when she was younger, but never asked. She’d thought he was the coolest thing ever up until she was about ten, then she’d thought he was the world’s biggest jackass until she was about fourteen, and now that she’s twenty she realizes that he’s actually the single most important person in her entire life. She’d wanted to be just like his daughter, growing up.

If she’s being honest with herself, the idea that David is a part of some weird spy thing is less surprising than the fact that he apparently knows Brendon Urie. And then she remembers that Zack’s from Eastern North Carolina, too, and she doesn’t know anything about what David did before Bianca was old enough to retain memories.

“Great, now we’re on the same page,” Zack mutters. “I’m going to sleep.”

“I’m sorry you had to find out like this,” Brendon tells Bianca softly.

The sad thing is, she believes him.

“Honestly, I’m not surprised,” she admits.

* * *

Bianca waits for an hour, according to the red numbers on the hotel-provided clock, after Zack leaves the hotel room to slowly get up herself.

She’s in the same bed as Brendon, which she would think was _so cool_ if not for the fact that Brendon Urie _kidnapped_ her and was holding her in a vicelike grip to keep her from escaping. Honestly, she’s surprised she made it out of that grip, even with the laxness from sleep.

The clock says it’s about six-thirty in the morning, which means that her mother should be getting up for work herself. Bianca was supposed to be at Wendy’s an hour and a half ago. She wonders if she’ll still have her job when all this is over.

She forgoes her flip-flops—they’d just slow her down—and slips out of the room, pulling the door closed slowly so it doesn’t slam shut.

There are four churches nearby, but she doesn’t know if any of them are unlocked. There’s a grocery store directly to the left of the hotel, a Hardee’s in front of it, and a whole historic downtown, just beyond the church on the right. Downtown has labyrinthine streets and the church she’s most familiar with and a diner that’s sure to be open even if the church isn’t.

Downtown it is.

She makes it down to the parking lot, intent on making a break for the Episcopal church so she can hide in the basement, but Zack’s leaning against the car, tapping something out on his phone.

He looks up at her, glances back down at his phone, then back up at her. “An hour. Smart.”

Bianca stares him down, assessing her options and her chances. If she runs, if she manages to _outrun_ him, then she’ll have the upper hand. She knows Swansboro. She knows downtown Swansboro, because she went to church here, her younger brother did Boy Scouts at the Methodist church right beside them. She watched the fireworks at the waterfront every year, and her mother gets all her best yarn and knitting needles from the yarn shop. Swansboro is _home,_ as much as Bianca wishes it weren’t.

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t—” Zack starts, but Bianca doesn’t let him finish. She’s taking off before he can.

The thing about the Methodist church next door to the hotel is that it’s kind of ridiculous. There are so many buildings besides just the chapel, and they’d be unnecessary if the church didn’t double as a daycare. It doesn’t take her long to slip out of Zack’s sight, and by the time Zack rounds the same corner she’s already halfway down to the bottom level. She’s sprinting across the lower parking lot when he calls after her, but she ignores him and keeps going, down the street and past the playground.

She sees her old church, runs even faster than she even thought possible. The secretary’s car is parked out front already, in a stroke of luck, and Bianca knows exactly which door this secretary uses, makes a break directly for that one instead of the front.

Zack’s gaining ground, just barely behind her, when she slams the side door shut and turns the lock. She grins, in a burst of smartass-ness that doesn’t surprise her in the slightest, and mouths _sorry_ at him, before she takes off and enters the sanctuary. She races down the familiar red-carpeted stairs and checks that the door that leads outside is locked.

The layout of the basement’s strange, to say the least. Directly in front of the stairs is a room with robes—robes for the acolytes, robes for the lay readers, robes for the choir. To her right is the door that leads outside—if she’s ever going to _leave_ the church, that’ll be one of two ways to do it, probably the best of the two. To her left is the main room, big and empty with lots of side rooms that branch off. She ducks into the room with the supplies for the church’s summer camp program, hammers and nails and screwdrivers.

She sits down on the ground, grateful that—for now—Zack and Brendon can’t actually get in, and even when they do get in, they won’t know where to look. It gives her time to _think_.

There are three doors that she can get to from the sanctuary: the one in the basement, the one at the back of the sanctuary itself, and the one out of the sacristy that the choir director used to use to get to children’s choir during the sermon. From where Bianca left Zack, he can only see that main door. The other two let out near the playground, on the other side of the building.

All other doors out of the building require going out through the connector, where Zack’s sure to see if he’s still watching the door she came in through. The doors are mostly glass.

If Zack were smart, he’d watch the door where she came in from, because he’s got a good view of the big red door and can see into the connector. If Zack were _really_ smart, he’d have canvassed the whole area, and called Brendon in to watch the doors he can’t see.

Bianca’s got to get the timing on this fucking _perfect_.

* * *

Brendon wakes up alone, with his phone ringing. It’s Zack.

“I thought you were going to bring her back up,” he mumbles sleepily, pushing himself into a seated position.

 _She’s hiding in a church downtown,_ Zack admits. He sounds pissed.

“How the fuck did she outrun you?” Brendon demands, getting up and slipping on his shoes. He’s starting to get tempted to just let the girl be, tell Alexander that they fucking _tried_.

 _She’s not fast, but she knows her way around,_ Zack explains. _Got out of my sight long enough to get a head start. When she got into the building she locked the door. All the rest were already locked._

“Fantastic,” Brendon muttered. “I’ll be right there.”

It takes a bit of vague directing on Zack’s part, but Brendon manages to get to the church relatively quickly. It’s not like it’s hard to find, anyway.

“This is the door she went in through,” Zack explains. “She went that way.” He points towards the chapel, looming over the rest of the grounds.

“Any other doors into the chapel?” Brendon asks. Zack nods.

“Two, looks like.”

* * *

Bianca unlocks the door, so that she can use it as a way back in if necessary. She eases it closed behind her so it doesn’t slam loud enough for the guys to hear it. She’s three steps up when Brendon rounds the corner, standing up at the top of the steps.

“Good morning,” Brendon says conversationally, leaning against the brick wall between the concrete stairs and the field.

“Nice weather,” Bianca says with a nervous grin. “Great day for a…walk.”

They regard each other for a moment, then Bianca runs right back into the basement.

She doesn’t waste time on the lock behind her, because the lock’s really finicky on the best days. She just sprints up the stairs and up the aisle, silently apologizing to God for being so noisy but she’s not ready to _meet_ Him yet so she’s sure He’ll understand.

She thinks about locking the sacristy door, but that’s a dick move on the altar guild, and if they’re the same little old ladies they’ve always been, she can’t do that to them.

Zack’s waiting at the foot of the steps outside, and Brendon’s coming up behind, so Bianca does something kind of stupid. She vaults over the side, about halfway down.

She hears Zack say, “What the _fuck?_ ” as she runs into the garden. She’s almost down to the street when an arm wraps around her waist, effectively stopping her.

“There’s a candy shop down here,” Bianca says stupidly. “By the yarn store. They have great fudge. Do you like fudge?”

“We’re going to go back to the hotel,” Brendon whispers. “You’re not going to run anymore, because we are not going to make a scene.”

“Or we can go to Yana’s,” Bianca offers. “It’s cute. Haven’t been in years. Always busy in the mornings, and they close at two.”

Brendon moves his arm, wrapping a hand around Bianca’s upper arm. He’s gripping too tight, but Bianca thinks that might be fair. He says, “This way,” and starts pulling Bianca to street level.

“You’re going the wrong way,” Bianca says helpfully, as Brendon pulls her down the street.

“We’re not going further downtown,” Brendon snaps.

“Actually, we are,” Bianca corrects. Brendon’s hand tightens. “No, seriously, you’re about to pull me right past the police station. Like, directly beside it. You’re gonna wanna turn left up here, or you’ll get arrested for abduction.” She’s not lying, but she kind of hopes Brendon thinks she is.

It would suck, admittedly, if Brendon Urie gets arrested right before his big Broadway debut, but it’d serve him right for all this bullshit.

Brendon stops, though, forces Bianca to face him. “If you’re lying,” he says lowly, “if you’re actually directing me _to_ the police station, I’ll be arrested for much worse than kidnapping.”

Bianca’s pretty sure that’s a not-so-veiled threat on her life. She swallows thickly, but nods.

* * *

Brendon doesn’t like the look of Bianca’s room. It’s about eleven in the morning, and he’d brought her back so she could pack a bag.

The room doesn’t look like it’s been ransacked, which would be good, except there are no signs of struggle, either. And there was a hell of a struggle, Brendon knows this. He was a part of it. The rock lamp is in the exact spot it was in before she woke up last night.

“Hold up,” he says softly, before Bianca steps into the room. He goes ahead of her, carefully. “I need you to look around closely,” he tells her, “and tell me if anything looks different than it was when you went to bed last night.”

“Brendon Urie’s standing in my room,” Bianca says dryly. “He wasn’t there last night.”

Brendon levels a glare at her. She sends one right back.

“I’m serious,” Brendon says.

Bianca huffs, but looks around. He sees the moment she realizes what’s wrong, because her eyes go wide. The rock lamp’s upright on the end table, and the duct tape Brendon used to tape Bianca’s mouth shut is back on the dresser, when he knows he just dropped it on the floor. Everything is as it was before Brendon showed up, but Brendon didn’t put it right.

“Someone was in my room,” she realizes, looking up at Brendon with wide, scared eyes. “They, they were in my _room_. They put things _back_ , why would they—”

“So that if you turned up dead, they won’t search your room for clues,” Brendon explains gently. “Do you believe me now?” He was with Bianca (almost) every second since they left last night, with the exception of this morning’s happenings.

“I have to call my mom,” Bianca whispers, making a beeline for her phone, still on the charger and sitting on the end table.

“Whoa, wait, hey,” Brendon intervenes, grabbing her wrist. “No, they’re probably tapped into your phone.” He doesn’t mention that he tapped into her phone himself.

Bianca turns around. “If my mom gets home, and I’m not here, she’s going to call the cops,” she points out. “If I don’t tell her I’m going out of town, I’m a missing person, and Summers saw me with you at the hotel, which puts _you_ as the prime suspect, and then you _will_ be arrested for kidnapping.”

Brendon blinks, but he’s got to admit that she’s got a point.

“Use my phone, then,” he says, unlocking it and handing it to her. “They’ll be listening to yours.”

“Yeah, I’ve just…got to get the number. We got new phones a couple weeks ago, I don’t remember the new number.” Brendon nods, but something doesn’t sit quite right with that explanation. Most carriers will let you keep your old number when you switch, and new phones with the same carrier never change numbers. Not unless you ask them to.

“Hey, mom, it’s Bianca. I just…I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be going out of town for a bit? I’ve, I’ve already got it sorted out with work and all that, I know I should have told you before but…well, it’s kind of last minute? Like, I thought of it less than two weeks ago, and I wasn’t entirely sure I’d get the time off anyway, not so soon after the concert, but I thought I should let you know so you didn’t think I was…I was kidnapped…or anything like that. So, I guess I’ll—” Brendon takes the phone back, cutting her off. He raises an eyebrow at her as he raises it to his ear.

 _Wait, hang on, were you_ actually _kidnapped?_

Brendon hangs up, crosses his arms and puts on his most threatening face. He wishes Zack hadn’t left already, and really wishes Spencer was still on his team. Spencer had the best threatening face.

“Clever,” he says. “But you put a little too much emphasis on the ‘I was kidnapped’ part.”

“Syd’s gonna kill you,” Bianca mutters, grabbing a duffel out of the closet and throwing some clothes in it.

Brendon thinks it’s probably best not to mention that he kind of wants to kill Bianca himself.

Alexander owes him _huge_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a dream someone tried to kill me in a hotel in DC. Brendon Urie was there. Don't know why. Here's how I think I would have gotten to that point.
> 
> I'm actually originally from Swansboro, so like. That church really is laid out like that. All the places in the Swansboro scene are real places. Because I know these things.


	2. Let Me Save You, Hold This Rope (Er...Handcuffs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. Oh wow. Like 3 weeks. Oops. Genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, _oops_. I don't know where that time went. I didn't _mean_ for it to be 3 weeks before uploading the second chapter. It just kind of...happened. Oops.

They leave at about two in the afternoon, in the car Brendon and Zack had rented back when they got here. Zack had hotwired some car to take him to the airport while Brendon and Bianca were at Bianca’s house.

Brendon looks over at Bianca when he hits a red light, dozing in the front seat with a pair of sunglasses on to block out the sun. She seems to trust him a tiny bit more, not putting up a fight to get back into the car—and she certainly could have set off in the neighborhood, ran to a neighbor’s house or something like that. Brendon thinks it was seeing her room put right, even though none of them could have done it themselves. It showed her that there _was_ someone after her.

What Brendon can’t figure out is _why_. Why her, why this slightly overweight girl with an uneven tan and what might once have been an undercut that’s since grown out? What exactly is it about her that makes her a target?

Is it Alexander? Did he tell her something, something she didn’t realize at the time was so important? But why would he do that, if he knew that it would lead to this? Alexander doesn’t make mistakes, Brendon knows that much, especially not about something that would lead to an innocent person’s life being in danger.

The first thought that Brendon had, back when he saw her phone background for the first time, was that maybe there was something at that concert. But the thing is, a) nothing happened at the Greensboro concert that anybody would want to kill any of the fans over, and b) there’s no way that she was the only person who got anything from that concert, but she is (to his knowledge) the only one being targeted.

It’s ridiculous to think that they’d kill a couple thousand people, anyway. Nobody’s that ambitious.

* * *

Bianca wakes up at about the same time Brendon pulls onto I-95, sitting up slowly and pushing some loose hairs out of her face. She doesn’t say anything, just shifts slightly and stares out the window. Brendon takes a deep breath. He can’t blame her for not wanting to say anything, but it’s going to be a long trip if she resigns herself to silence for all of it.

“We’re gonna stop for dinner in about an hour,” Brendon tells her, mostly to break the silence himself. He fucking hates quiet, he always has. “Anything in particular you want me to look for?”

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look away from the window or at least shrug to show she’d heard him.

Another ten minutes pass before he hears a quiet, “Where are we going?”

“New York,” he says simply. “I’ve got to be up there soon, I’ve got…” _Rehearsals,_ he finishes in his head. He’s got to get up there so he can get ready to be in a Broadway musical, while he uproots this random person’s life because somebody’s trying to kill her for some unknown reason. “A friend of mine will take you from there, actually. I don’t know where he’ll be taking you, it’ll be between you and him.”

“Pawning me off on a friend so you can be a Broadway star,” she mutters darkly, sinking into the seat.

Brendon wants to say something, assure her that’s not true, but that’s essentially exactly what it is, so.

* * *

It’s actually two hours before Brendon stops, pulls off at the same exit that Bianca’s mom always stops at when they go to DC. Brendon pulls into a gas station first, parks at the pump and says, “I’m gonna fill up, then we’ll get some food, kay?” He doesn’t get out right away, and Bianca can feel him looking at her.

If he’s waiting for a response, he may as well stop blocking the pump. She’s not giving him one. She’s looking around, trying to find the best direction to run—if they’re trying to shake people off, Brendon’s definitely going to want to pay in cash, which means that he’ll be inside for a couple critical minutes.

She’s just decided on hiding out in the bathroom of the Taco Bell she can see not too far from the gas station when Brendon reaches across and _handcuffs her to the door handle._

“What the _fuck_?” she demands, pulling her hand as far from the door handle as the chain on the cuffs will allow.

“I’m going in to pay,” Brendon explains. “And I really don’t feel like chasing you down right now.”

Bianca doesn’t say anything, but she glares at him until he disappears inside. So much for making a grand escape.

The gas station must be crowded, she thinks, because he’s in there for a while. She _totally_ could have gotten away, why’d he have to _think_ of that?

He comes back out, holding a plastic bag in one hand and his phone in the other. He slips the phone into his pocket and opens the driver’s door, grinning innocently at her. “See, you’re still here. Easier for everybody.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out some candy. “Gummy bears?”

It takes a few minutes for Brendon to fill the tank, and Bianca’s cuffed to the car door handle for all of it.

This is absolutely the worst car trip ever, which is just ironic, because she’d always figured that if she got the chance to go on a car trip with Brendon Urie, it’d be one of the _best_. Seriously, under any other circumstances, there’d probably be some Disney singalong or something, but no. No, Bianca’s got to sit in a car with the man who _kidnapped_ her, so it doesn’t matter if he sings This Is Gospel or The Calendar or any of the other songs that she’s so in love with. He is clearly a psychopath.

“So, dinner,” Brendon says, getting back into the car and turning it on. “What would you like?”

“I would _like_ for you to unlock these stupid handcuffs,” Bianca snaps.

“Which I will,” Brendon promises, “right before we get out of the car.”

Bianca’s eyes narrow. “ _This_ ,” she says, lifting her right wrist to show she’s talking about the handcuffs, “is entirely unnecessary.”

“Oh, so you’d have just stayed in the car the whole time I was in there?” Brendon’s voice has a bit of an edge to it, Bianca can tell. “Just like you just called your mom to tell her that you’re going out of town, right?”

He pulls into Taco Bell, the exact one that Bianca would have run to if she’d been able. She feels like he’s taunting her, even though he can’t possibly have known that this is where she’d have gone—there are four places that are more obvious, by virtue of being closer.

He climbs out without unlocking the handcuffs, and Bianca’s about a second away from reaching over and honking the horn to get somebody’s attention when Brendon carefully opens her door, standing in such a way that anybody who happens to look won’t see that Bianca’s still attached to the door. Brendon releases her, steps back to give her room to get out of the car, but stays close enough that he can grab her if she makes a break for it.

“Can you trust me long enough for me to go to the bathroom, or are you going to insist on watching me pee?” Bianca asks scathingly.

Brendon rolls his eyes. “If you’d just cooperate with me, I’d trust you a lot more,” he points out. “I’m trying to help, I don’t know why you’re so difficult.”

Bianca blinks up at him. “You…Don’t know why…” She rolls her eyes and goes into the bathroom, takes a shuddering breath and furiously blinks back tears.

She’s on a road trip from hell with _Brendon Urie,_ David apparently has something to do with it, she doesn’t have her phone and even if she did it’d almost certainly be tapped, she doesn’t have her computer or any other way to access the internet and her friends. She doesn’t know her way around New York, and she doesn’t know what comes _after_ New York. She’s got a pretty solid guess that even after pouring over $600 into her vacation in July, she’s not going to get to go see Brendon on Broadway (not that she particularly wants to, now, after seeing what an ass he is).

Worst of all, on this road trip from hell, is that it’s _boring_. She doesn’t have a book, or a notebook and a pen, or even those weird wooden or metal puzzles, anything at all to keep her occupied.

* * *

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Brendon starts, once they’re back on the Interstate. “We’re going to stop in DC for the night, we’ll get a hotel and then leave once we’re both up. I’d _really_ appreciate it if you didn’t try to run while it’s dark out, okay?”

Bianca doesn’t say anything at all, which isn’t exactly _surprising_ to Brendon, but it is worrying. If she decides to make a break for it, it’ll be easy for her to lose him, and he can’t guarantee that he’ll catch back up to her before someone else catches her first. He’d like to not find her dead body in an alley in DC, that would be a more-than-minor inconvenience.

“Bianca, I’m serious,” Brendon tries again. At her continued silence, he takes a deep breath. “I get it, okay? I understand, this is all—”

“You _understand_?” Bianca repeats, whipping her head around to stare at him. “You understand. You understand what it’s like to have your entire _life_ uprooted, to find out that the most important person in your life is a part of it, was apparently a part of something that you can’t even _begin_ to imagine? You understand what it’s like to wake up in the middle of the night by someone _standing over you_ , telling you that somebody’s trying to kill you, we have to go?

“I had a _job_. I had _friends_. I have a mom and a sister and a fucking _cat_ of all things, the only illegal thing I’ve ever done was drink a _tiny_ amount on my nineteenth birthday, and the only _trouble_ I’ve ever caused was for my family when I was in middle school. I was normal—painfully and blessedly _normal_. And you come in and you just… _ripped it away_. So don’t you fucking dare tell me you _understand_.”

Neither of them say anything for a long time.

Brendon thinks, many times, of breaking the silence, but at the end of it all, she’s right. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what she’s going through, because he never went through it. He hasn’t been a normal citizen since Ryan got Pete’s attention on LiveJournal—he’s been a rockstar since. Once they got themselves into all this mess on top of music, not much actually _changed_ —they still went around the country, touring and playing festivals and TV shows, and they went to other countries for the same reasons, they just did more than that on top of it all.

But Bianca, Bianca isn’t like that. She worked fast food before Brendon and Zack showed up. She lived in a trailer in a town that nobody’s heard of except for those from around the area. She probably had things she wanted to do, a school she wanted to go to, a career she wanted to take. And Brendon tore her away from it all in a whirlwind of vague threats on her life.

“Someone tried to kill us on the Smoking Guns tour,” Brendon says finally, voice soft. He stares straight ahead, but he can feel that Bianca’s looking at him now. “We never found out why. We were in the dressing room, dicking around before we actually had to get ready to go on stage. This guy came in with a knife and he tried to slit Brent’s throat. Spencer…Spencer hit him with a chair.” Brendon smiles, because they gave Spence shit for that move for _weeks_ afterwards, even though it did end up saving Brent’s life. “We got the knife from him, but he just pulled a gun. I was staring down the barrel of it when William Beckett came running in and shot the fuck in the head. I’m pretty sure Ryan got brain matter in his eye.”

“That’s disgusting,” Bianca says.

“The glorious truth they don’t show in movies,” Brendon replies. “Brain matter gets places. All four of us ended up covered in blood, and then shortly after all four of us threw up all the contents of our stomachs.

“That’s what pushed Brent to leave, ultimately,” he adds. “Beckett gave us Jon so that we would have somebody there if it happened again, and Pete found us Zack so that he could train us. Initially, it was supposed to just be self-defense, but…”

“But you were three kids who found yourselves in a spy movie,” Bianca finishes dryly. “And you wanted to be a part of the action.”

“It was just like James Bond,” Brendon grins, “and it was the coolest shit ever.”

“I never liked James Bond,” Bianca mutters darkly. “I always thought they were tacky and predictable.”

* * *

They get into DC at about nine that night, check in at the Marriott right next to the Metro station that leads to the zoo. Bianca has one weekend of memories at this hotel, an anime convention she’d staffed when she was a student at Georgetown (she’d left because it was fucking _expensive_ ), and it had been one of her favorite weekends. She still has the prints of David Bowie, Crowley from Supernatural, and an original painting of a dragon, back home.

It occurs to Bianca that if she can never go back, she doesn’t actually have anything anymore. She’s too tired to really care, at this point.

The desk attendant is much less enthusiastic than Summers was back in Swansboro, but Bianca’s hardly shocked. It’s hard to match Summers’s genuine enthusiasm, which is why he was always one of her favorite teachers.

When they get up to the room, Brendon keeping hold of both card keys (“You’re staying with me, you don’t need your own.”), Bianca’s pleased to find that there are two beds. Brendon had said not to run while it was dark out, as if Bianca’s that dumb anyway—if she makes a break for it in the morning, though, she can slip onto the Metro in the morning rush of people. Travel around aimlessly until ten or eleven—which will sneak up on her without any sort of time keeping device—and then go to the Mall, where the crowds are a constant press of people. Bianca can lose _anybody_ in the weird underground art museum, too, so there’s that.

She’s broken out of her thoughts of _freedom_ when she sees the glint of light on _those stupid fucking handcuffs_.

“Are you fucking—?” She breaks off in a huff as Brendon snaps one end of the cuffs to the headboard of the bed. “This is not safe, sane, and consensual,” she says. “I did not consent to this.”

“Right,” Brendon mutters. “I’m tired.” He’s already taking off his t-shirt, and Bianca really wishes that she could appreciate a shirtless Brendon Urie alone in a hotel room with her (because in any other possibility for this shit, Sarah almost definitely already signed off on it, since Brendon seems hopelessly devoted to keeping her happy), but not wearing a shirt does not change the fact that he _kidnapped_ her.

“This isn’t necessary,” Bianca snaps, vigorously shaking her wrist. The press of the cuff to her wrist when she pulls the chain taut is painful, but when she lets it go lax, it’s almost comfortable. She supposes she should just consider herself lucky that Brendon was considerate enough not to lock it too tightly (still tight enough that she can’t slip her hand out, not that she doesn’t try).

The numbers on the clock read _2:12_ by the time her head shuts up enough for her to slip into an uneasy sleep, halfway under the blanket because she gave up on trying to pull it up all the way with only one hand and limited mobility.

She’s really got to pee.

* * *

Brendon wakes up later than he’d planned, the clock displaying the time as _8:36_. Eight-thirty’s not too bad, considering he doesn’t think he actually fell asleep until somewhere around two, when Bianca managed to stop shifting long enough to get something resembling rest.

Speaking of, Bianca’s staring up at the ceiling, lightly shaking the hand attached to the bed—less like she’s trying to escape and more like she’s trying to wake it up.

“Did you actually get any sleep last night?” Brendon asks, rubbing his hands over his face.

“I have to pee,” Bianca says, instead of answering Brendon’s question.

“Understandable,” Brendon allows, climbing out of bed and grabbing the key, unlocking the end around her wrist first. She’s up and into the bathroom before Brendon can even back away to give her room.

He hears the shower start up a moment later, and Brendon’s just glad that he can see both the bathroom door and the door out of the room, because otherwise the shower thing would totally just be a trick to escape.

But Brendon also remembers that first time, the sudden too-tightness of his skin, the way that the four of them scrubbed themselves raw every time they showered for almost two weeks after (granted, they had also been covered in blood and brain matter, but Brendon remembers trying to scrub away the fear too), and he knows that Bianca needs the shower more than anything else in that moment.

Brendon moves her bag so that it’s on the counter right by the bathroom door. He’s a considerate kidnapper, at least.

Bianca comes out about twenty minutes later, skin red like the water was too hot. Brendon winces when he catches a glimpse of her right wrist—he knows that he didn’t lock it too tight, but he also knows that she spent a lot of time trying to escape, and the skin around it’s rubbed raw. She doesn’t say anything at all, just digs through the bag that Brendon put on the counter and slips back into the bathroom.

“If there’s a limited supply of hot water, I may have used it all,” Bianca says when she comes back out, in a pair of military green shorts and a black shirt with someone Brendon recognizes as Markiplier on the front. Her hair is fluffed out, in a way that Brendon remembers being told by an ex helps hair air-dry faster.

“It’s fine,” Brendon tells her, standing up. He’s pretty sure that there isn’t a limited supply of hot water, but even if there was, he’s hungry more than anything else. “I’m used to smelling like a middle school boy’s locker room.”

“Sweat, desperation, and copious amounts of Axe?” Bianca asks dryly, and Brendon can’t help but laugh.

“Actually, you’ll find that my natural scent is sweat and sex appeal,” Brendon replies, bending down to pick up the shirt he wore yesterday—he’s going to shower after breakfast, so he doesn’t want to dirty up a shirt for nothing.

Bianca doesn’t say anything, but she lifts an eyebrow, so Brendon knows she’s laughing on the inside. He’s fluent in eyebrow, it’s Spencer’s first language.

“Come on, we’ll get breakfast,” Brendon says, changing the subject and ushering Bianca into the hall. He’s already got his phone, wallet, and the keycards in his pockets. “And, please, stay close.”

“If I can lose you, I can lose whoever you seem to think is after me,” Bianca points out. “Unless you think they’re better than you, in which case you’re useless to me anyway.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Brendon argues. “There are more of them than there are of me, probably, which means they can cover more ground. And I’m not familiar with most parts of this city, they could be. I can protect you just fine, but I’m not great at tracking.” That was Ryan’s thing, then Dallon’s. “I don’t even know what the food options are around here.”

“There’s a McDonald’s across the street,” Bianca offers, but she doesn’t seem happy about it. “The Chipotle and the Noodles and Company are both probably closed this early.”

Of course Bianca knows DC better than he does. It’s like he’s accidentally choosing all the best places for her to make a break for it. “It’s too early for Chipotle or noodles,” Brendon points out instead, because he doesn’t think grumbling about how easy it would be for Bianca to escape would be wise. She probably already knows, but he doesn’t want to give her any ideas.

“It’s never too early for noodles.”

They end up going to the McDonald’s, Bianca leading with Brendon staying just barely a half step behind so that he can grab her if she suddenly takes off.

Bianca’s rubbing absently at her wrist as they sit at the table. She’s not even pink from the hot shower anymore, but the circle around her wrist is still a raised white line surrounded by angry red. Brendon thinks there might be a little bit of dried blood in places.

“We can stop and get you some aloe or something,” he offers, pouring syrup over his pancakes.

Bianca just shrugs. “I’ve had worse, honestly,” she admits. “Cuts and burns and stuff, small work accidents and tripping over my own two feet.”

“Yeah, but still,” Brendon says, “that’s almost entirely my fault.”

“ _Almost_ entirely?” Bianca repeats.

Brendon shrugs. “I didn’t do them too tight. This whole experience would be a lot smoother if you’d cooperate with me.”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Bianca demands. She’s not really eating, more picking the Hot Cakes apart and pushing them around with a fork. “I don’t _believe_ you. Okay? You keep saying all these things, but the only sign that you’re not making all of this up is that my room wasn’t any more of a disaster area than normal. And someone cleaning my room isn’t exactly cause to believe that someone’s trying to _kill_ me.” Her voice is low, thankfully, so it’s not like anybody’s going to overhear them, but Brendon’s still not comfortable saying it in public. “Besides, if you work for some secret organization, you could totally have cleaners who do that shit _for you_.”

Brendon sighs. She makes some excellent points. “Okay, fine, but consider this: I haven’t actually done anything other than whisk you away on this road trip. We’ve been alone in the car for hours, we were alone in the hotel room, and even back in Carolina, Zack would have hardly been considered a witness. I haven’t tried to hurt you in any way. I’m sorry about your wrist, and I’m sorry if there are any bruises from how tight I hold on to you sometimes, but whether I’m right or not, _I_ haven’t tried to kill you. Why would I wait to try anything until we get to New York?” He makes his eyes as wide and earnest as possible, tries to make himself seem as harmless as possible.

He’s aware that he’s already shown that he can do some damage if he so chooses, but he needs for her to believe him.

“I don’t know,” Bianca admits, which Brendon supposes is a start. “But maybe you’re just insane, thinking that there’s some kind of threat that isn’t there at all.”

“Then how would I have known about Alexander?” Brendon points out, and he can see the moment where Bianca accepts, at least, that Brendon’s not entirely crazy. He wonders how well she knows Alexander, if she’d suggest senility when he and Zack refused to consider it.

* * *

“I’m going to take a shower,” Brendon says, as soon as the door’s shut behind them. “I apologize in advance.”

“You’re gonna handcuff me to the bed again, aren’t you?” Bianca sounds more resigned than anything else, but Brendon knows better than to think she’s given up the fight.

He looks at her wrist again, still so raw and red, and shakes his head. “I’m gonna duct tape you to the chair,” he says instead, because she can’t tear up her wrist if she’s taped to the chair.

“I’d rather you just handcuff me to the bed,” Bianca counters. “The tape would be a bitch to take off.” To emphasize her point, she climbs into her bed and offers him her—left—wrist. “See, I’m cooperating and everything.”

Brendon studies her for a moment, but she has a point—she’s in shorts and short sleeves, the duct tape will definitely not come off easily. He’d been planning on putting a washcloth under the duct tape on her right wrist, but cuffing her left would be easier.

“Okay,” he agrees, “but if your left wrist ends up just as bad as the right one, it’s not my fault at all.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t struggle either, even after Brendon walks away. He’ll shower quickly, anyway, mostly because he’d like to get out of DC and into (hopefully) an area that Bianca’s less familiar with. He still doesn’t like how easily she could get away from him.

He’s just put the shampoo in his hair when he hears screaming, and the sound of something made of glass shattering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I will try not to take 3 weeks before this cliffhanger is resolved. I'm just really, really bad at being aware of the passage of time.

**Author's Note:**

> Had a dream someone tried to kill me in a hotel in DC. Brendon Urie was there. Don't know why. Here's how I think I would have gotten to that point.
> 
> I'm actually originally from Swansboro, so like. That church really is laid out like that. All the places in the Swansboro scene are real places. Because I know these things.


End file.
